by Nic Saint
“Shoot.”
“How well do you know the history of these parts?”
“Depends. What do you want to know?”
“Do you know anything about a ship that went down with all hands at the time of the Revolutionary War?” I asked. “Called the Albion?”
I decided that now that I had a genuine born and bred Happy Baysian here, I might as well ask him what he knew about the ship.
He nodded seriously. “Sure. It’s a popular diving spot. Been there myself a couple of times.” He pointed straight ahead. “It’s right there, not too far from shore. Want me to take you there one time?”
“No, that’s all right,” I said, laughing. “Is there… a lot left of the ship?”
“Well, you can still see it used to be a ship, though it’s pretty busted up by now, of course, after so many years. But it’s still fun to go and have a look.”
“So… it’s an interesting dive, huh?”
He flashed me that toothy smile again. “Sure, if you’re into shipwrecks.”
“No, um, no bones or skulls or anything like that?”
“Nope. Just a bunch of old, rotted wood and half-decayed parts.”
I felt the disappointment as keenly as if someone had slapped me with a wet rag. Though with these temperatures a wet rag would have been welcome. “What about, um…” I hesitated, but then trudged on. “What about treasure? You know, like gold doubloons and rubies and all that stuff?”
“Doubloons!” he cried, laughing. “This was a British ship, Strel, not a Spanish frigate. I don’t think the English carried doubloons, and definitely not in 1776. If there was ever anything of value aboard the Albion it might have been coin, but that’s all gone now, of course.”
“All gone?” I asked, not able to conceal my disappointment.
“Well, the ship has been down there for over two hundred years. Hundreds, maybe thousands of amateur divers must have gone over it with a fine-tooth comb, not to mention teams of archeologists. If there was ever something down there, it’s gone by now. But if you’re into that kind of stuff, you should definitely hook up with some of the historical societies. They keep a record of every boat that ever went down in the Long Island area.”
“Thanks,” I said mutedly. So no treasure. Of course not. What was I thinking? Believing some crazy old ghost. I should have known better.
When he saw my disappointment, he said, “If you really want to find treasure you have to go down south. I’ll bet there’s still plenty of treasure to be found in the Caribbean, where all those famous pirates were most active.”
I nodded, and stared out across the ocean. “Thanks, Clive. Edie’s, um, reading a book about shipwrecks on Long Island, and we were just wondering if the Albion carried any treasure. I guess it doesn’t.”
"If it ever did, it was looted a long time ago," he said ruefully. He looked up when a kid started screaming thirty yards from shore. "Uh-oh. Duty calls, Strel. See you later." And with these words, he was off at a trot, which was a sight for sore eyes, and I stared after his well-developed glutes as he dove into the spray, his muscular frame easily propelling him in the direction of the hapless kid who'd ventured too far from shore, and was now going under for the second time.
I watched as Clive rescued the kid with the skilled ease of a professional lifeguard, and I sighed when the other beachgoers applauded. Clive could save my life anytime.
So no treasure, huh? Captain Suggur must have been sleeping on the job, if someone had stolen his precious chest right from under his nose. Or maybe the old captain was simply delusional and there had never been any treasure to begin with. Whatever the case, our mission was a bust, and I’d wasted everyone’s time. Oh, God, I thought. I’d roped in Sam and Pierre and Spear, all for a wild goose chase. We’d even rented a boat. All for nothing. I groaned in agony, burying my head in my hands. What was I going to tell the guys?
And as I sat there, wondering how to break the news to the others, suddenly a familiar voice sounded in my ear, and this time it was Suggur.
Chapter 18
I gave the guy the evil eye. “Hey there, Suggur. I was looking for you.”
I had to speak softly, for even though I’d opted for a quiet spot, if people saw me talking to thin air they might call the police and have me admitted to the nearest mental hospital.
“I’ve been waiting,” Captain Suggur said solemnly, “for you to return. Waiting and waiting and waiting. In other words, the story of my life. I thought you said you would help me complete my mission? Deliver the treasure of the Albion to Lord Dockland? Obviously I was wrong to entrust you with such an important mission. You gave me hope, only to snatch it away again,” he concluded a little dramatically.
I rolled my eyes. For a guy who’s been waiting for over two hundred years he sure lacked patience. “I’ve been busy organizing the salvage operation. It takes a lot of preparation to raise this treasure of yours.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“So you didn’t forget about me?”
“Would I be sitting here talking to you if I had?”
He shook his head. “I guess not.”
“Look, Captain Suggur. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“What a coincidence. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“You go first.”
“No, ladies first,” he said with perfect chivalry.
“No, you first,” I insisted, wondering how to tell the guy he was loopy and that there was no treasure.
“I just found out you’re not the only person I can talk to.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just had the nicest conversation with a wonderful young man.”
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “What young man?”
“Isn’t it just grand?” he asked, looking jubilant now. “After such a long time of not being able to communicate with anyone, suddenly on the same day I meet two people who can hear me. Isn’t that just typical?”
“Who is this guy, Suggur?” I insisted, though I had a pretty good idea.
“You just wander around aimlessly for years and years and years, and then, suddenly, out of the blue, bump into two people who’re willing not only to listen to your laments but are willing to dig up that old treasure and complete your mission! It’s just wonderful, don’t you think? Restores your faith in mankind and the universe all over again. Not that I ever completely lost hope, mind you. I’m an optimist by nature, after all. As a captain in the Royal Navy a certain resilience is a given. Did I ever tell you about that time I was shipwrecked for three months in the Bahamas?”
“No, you didn’t tell me about the time you were shipwrecked in the Bahamas for three months! Will you just tell me who this guy is? Please!”
He then pointed at Clive, who was chatting amiably with the mother of the boy he'd just saved and was looking typically modest in the process. "That strapping young man over there," Suggur said. "I mean, here I was, minding my own business, as usual, and there he was, getting ready for a new day as I've seen him do for the past couple of summers, and—"
“Oh, you know him, do you?” I asked, staring daggers at Clive’s back.
“I’ve seen him, and tried to talk to him plenty of times, but he’s always stubbornly ignored me until now. Until today,” he said with a happy smile.
I gritted my teeth as I suddenly saw Clive in a completely different light. “So you told him about the treasure? You actually told him all about it?”
“Of course! You weren’t coming back, so I figured I needed a backup.”
“I told you—I needed to get organized.”
“Yes, well, Clive said he was glad to be of service, and as soon as he was off duty he’d pick up this treasure of mine and deliver it to Lord Dockland in Manhattan.” He frowned. “There still is an island of Manhattan, right?”
“Yes, there is,” I said, still eyeing Clive darkly. Of all the rotten… So he’d known about the treasure and had si
mply wanted to throw me off the scent. “I don’t think Clive can be trusted,” I said, and that was putting it mildly.
Captain Suggur looked confused. “Whatever do you mean?”
“He just told me that there is no treasure.”
He gave me a blank look. “No treasure?”
“I was asking him about the shipwreck, and since he seemed to know so much about it, I steered the conversation in the direction of the treasure.” I eyed the captain pointedly. “He said there is no treasure. Nothing to find.”
“Well, there certainly is treasure when you know where to find it,” said Suggur. “I mean, you won’t find it without my instructions, of course. Otherwise every Tom, Dick and Harry would have found it a long time ago.”
“And you told Clive where he could find it?”
“Not the exact location. I will tell him once he’s out there.”
“Then why did he tell me there is no treasure?”
Captain Suggur gave me a commiserating look. “My dear young lady, of course he’s going to tell you there is no treasure. I swore the man to secrecy, just like you. He’s not going to blab about it to the first person he meets.”
This gave me pause. Suggur had a point. If Clive had asked me point blank about the treasure I would have vehemently denied its existence as well. Perhaps he was all right after all? On the other hand, if he wasn’t, he’d find the treasure and sell it to the highest bidder instead of handing it to Lord Dockland’s descendants. I decided that the best approach would be to snatch the treasure before he had a chance to. Get there first, in other words.
“He said he’s going to bring his father and uncle along,” said Suggur now, still beaming at me. “Apparently they’re accomplished divers and will take care of this little treasure of mine in a heartbeat. Who are you bringing?”
“I, um…” I thought about Johnny and Jerry and the rest of the gang. “They’re all professionals, too,” I said, and technically I wasn’t lying.
Suggur nodded appreciatively. “So great. First nobody was willing to help me and now, all of a sudden, no less than two crews are in competition.”
“Don’t you think you should call off Clive?” I asked, exasperated. “You’re making things a lot harder than they need to be with this competition thing.”
He barked a careless laugh. “I’m not doing anything of the kind, my dear girl. Just making sure you do things right speedily and do them well. A little competition has never hurt anybody, eh? Just hop to it and fetch me my treasure. The sooner you do, the sooner this will all be over and done with.”
“Well, my crew is ready to go. We’ll be here and we’ll beat Clive to it.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said with a light chuckle.
“How do you know Clive isn’t going to keep the treasure for himself?”
Captain Suggur grinned at this. “The same goes for you and your crew.”
“I would never double-cross you, Captain. Never.”
He shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve taken my precautions.”
“What precautions?” I asked, suspicious. Could Captain Suggur have booby-trapped the treasure? The moment we opened it some noxious gas was going to knock us out or, worse, kill us? Just like with Tutankhamen.
“You’ll see,” he said, floating a few inches above the sand now.
He was becoming more and more solid to me, as if engaging with the living was somehow bringing him back from the world of the dead. And then I saw Clive glancing over at Suggur and me, and he didn't look happy.
But if I’d thought he’d come over and suggest we join forces, I was sorely mistaken. Instead, he quickly stalked off toward his lifeguard chair, grabbed his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket, and started talking animatedly into it, probably telling his father and uncle to speed things up.
Uh-oh. The race for the treasure of the Albion was definitely on!
Chapter 19
“Just take a left here. We’re almost there.” Sam frowned at the map of New York he was studying on his phone while Pierre was driving, as usual.
“Are you sure this is the place?” asked Pierre, giving the house an incredulous look before pulling the car to a stop at the curb.
“Well, according to this, it is,” said Sam. He’d never been great at reading a map, not since the GPS was invented, but since theirs was on the fritz, and he had no idea how to work the app on his phone, he’d had to make do with an old-fashioned map again, albeit the Google version.
They’d been following up on Karie Nelson’s statement that Yehudi Brevity liked to go fishing from time to time with ‘Tom, Dick and Harry,’ and had discovered that the captain of the boat they’d liked to charter was a guy called Dale Spalding. They’d interviewed the crusty old sailor, whose forebears had been whalers, and he’d remembered Brevity well. Said he used to charter his boat once a month or so, to go fishing with his buddies.
He was a little more fuzzy about those buddies, at first not very forthcoming, as apparently he didn’t want to betray the confidence of his customers, but when Sam told him this was an ongoing murder investigation and he better talk, or else, he volunteered their names: Thomas Ettrick, Richard Dogwood and Harry Jowitt, aka Tom, Dick and Harry. So Karie had been right all along, no matter how unlikely her story had sounded.
Next they’d made their way to Riverhead, which was the closest, to pay a visit to Thomas Ettrick, aka Tom, the first of Brevity’s fishing buddies.
According to their information, the guy was a banker, though judging from the decrepit house he lived in he wasn’t in the same class as Brevity. No nice, big mansion for Tom, or a sprawling domain in The Hamptons. The house looked as dingy as the neighborhood, unless they were at the wrong address. Or the guy had hung up his banking spurs a long time ago.
They got out of the car and walked up to the house. Sam checked the nameplate, which was a handwritten scrawl under a tattered bell button that indicated that Thomas Ettrick was indeed the current resident.
He pressed the bell, and heard the sound echo inside the house. After a few seconds there was a shuffling of feet and the door was yanked open as far as the chain lock allowed and he found himself staring into two suspicious gray eyes that scrutinized him as much as he scrutinized their owner. What he could see of him, anyway, which wasn’t much. “What do you want?” the guy asked gruffly. Not the smooth honeyed tones of the courteous banker.
“Thomas Ettrick?”
“Who’s asking?”
“NYPD. Detectives Barkley and Farrier,” Sam said, producing his badge.
“What’s this about?” Ettrick asked, not making a move to open the door.
“We’re investigating the murder of Yehudi Brevity, sir, and we have reason to believe you’re an acquaintance of his. Can we have a word?”
The man paused, his eyes staring out at them unblinkingly, which was a disconcerting feat. Almost as if he was one of those anomalies born without eyelids. Finally, he blinked once and unhooked the chain lock. “Come in.”
As he opened the door, he granted a look at himself, and Sam frowned. The guy’s hair, what was left of it, pointed in all directions, as if he’d been recently struck by lightning, and he proved an extremely casual dresser for a banker, in his ratty housecoat, showcasing a pair of hairy legs, his feet shoved into worn-out unicorn slippers. As he shuffled down the corridor, he muttered, “Don’t mind the mess.”
“We won’t,” Sam promised as he walked behind the guy down a long and dark corridor, wallpaper peeling from the walls and newspapers and unopened mail littering the floor. Tom Ettrick obviously was in serious need of a housekeeper, and Sam wondered if Karie would be interested. She’d have her work cut out for her.
“So, Yehudi died, huh?” asked Ettrick as they followed him into what looked like the living room. Here, too, it was pretty dark, the guy obviously saving money on electricity. The table, like the rest of the place, was full of junk, half-eaten plates of what looked like beans in tomato sauce piled h
igh, pizza boxes stacked in a corner and cans of Bud strewn haphazardly on the floor. It was obvious here lived Homer Simpson’s long-lost kin and he was even more of a slob than that famous yellow inhabitant of Springfield.
“Take a seat,” Ettrick mumbled, pointing in the general direction of a chair. “I saw the story about his murder,” he added, plunking himself down on a chesterfield that was conveniently positioned in front of a small TV set.
“Was he a close friend of yours, Mr. Ettrick?” asked Pierre, removing a box of Chinese food from a chair and taking a seat.
“Yeah, he was,” confirmed Tom. “We were best chums and fishing buds.”
“Um, I hope you don’t mind my asking you, sir,” said Sam, “but how were you friends, exactly?” He just couldn’t imagine this guy being friends with the wealthy Yehudi Brevity. They seemed to inhabit vastly different worlds.
The man stared at him, unblinkingly again, which disconcerted Sam a great deal. Was the guy a man or an alien?
“What do you mean? We were buds. I just told you.”
“No, I mean, how did you meet?”
“Oh, I see,” he said, settling himself back in his chair and opening a Bud, then taking a swig. “Where are my manners?” he asked with a grin, holding up the can. “Want one? Or can’t you drink when on duty?”
“I’m good,” Sam said, holding up his hand.
Ettrick frowned, seeming to dig deep into his memories. “Well, Yehudi and I worked together, of course. For many years, actually. I was his derivatives specialist, you see. Used to run the entire department at Brevity Bank.”
Sam, who was the last one standing, now removed a bottle of cheap Vodka from a chair and marked it for his own after checking for stains. He might be a cop, but that didn’t mean he liked to wallow in the dirt, as Orrick Fibril seemed to assume.
“Unfortunately I made a couple of wrong decisions and I got laid off. Lost everything: my nice pad in downtown Manhattan, the Beemer, my wife… Been living hand to mouth ever since, trying to earn back what I lost. But I’m getting there,” he assured them, holding up a warning finger. “One of these days I’m going to be on top again, just you wait and see!”